The Tutor's Daughter Page 30

  He might be with Adam, Emma thought, and began climbing the stairs. As she reached the top floor, she told herself not to get her hopes up. Henry could as easily be sequestered with his father or Mr. Davies over some estate matter.

  She anticipated she would find Adam alone, bent over the tin soldiers with as much singular focus as he had given the dominoes and chess pieces.

  But when she reached Adam’s door, she heard voices coming from the other side. Two voices.

  Slowly, she inched the door open and peered in. There sat Adam and Henry, not at the table but on the floor. Coats discarded, knees bent, reclining casually like children in their shirtsleeves. The table must have been too small to contain the large battlefield they had created with many regiments of soldiers, as well as objects placed hither and yon to represent terrain. Perhaps that hat was a hill? And that hand mirror a lake?

  Emma watched a few moments longer, the scene gladdening her heart. Deciding not to disturb them, nor to bother Henry about the queen, she slipped silently from the room.

  Henry looked at his older brother, more talented than he. More troubled. More vulnerable. He thought of the upheaval Adam had experienced, losing his mother, his home, his entire family. Though Mr. and Mrs. Hobbes had apparently treated him well, Henry wondered if Adam felt abandoned, or bitter, or betrayed. He also wondered if the Hobbeses had taught Adam about God. If they had taken him to church and prayed with him, or if he had been isolated from those experiences as well.

  Henry moved a major forward on their pretend battlefield and quietly asked, “Adam, what do you believe about God?”

  “God?”

  “Yes. You know—our creator. ‘Our Father who art in heaven . . . ’?”

  Adam nodded. “Mar and Par told me about God. We went to visit him at church.”

  “Ah. Well . . . good.” Henry recalled his conversation with Miss Smallwood and determined to tread more carefully. He said, “And do you ever pray?”

  Again Adam nodded. “Mar says it is good to pray.”

  Henry wondered if prayer was more than a rote act for him. He fumbled for words. “Do you . . . believe God hears you?”

  Adam shrugged and moved an ensign forward. “I talk and that is all.”

  “You don’t . . . feel God’s presence?”

  Adam’s face wrinkled. “I don’t know what that means. I don’t feel . . . that.”

  Henry felt his own brow crinkle in concentration. It seemed as if he were trying to explain an abstract thing—faith—in a foreign language, and one he had only a rudimentary understanding of himself. He said, “It is all right if you don’t feel it. Faith is far more than emotion. More than feelings.”

  Adam’s expression remained flat. Unimpressed.

  Henry inhaled deeply and turned his head to look out the window for inspiration. He saw the tallest branches of the turkey oak bending in the southwest wind. He unfolded his long legs, lumbered to his feet, and stepped to the window. “Adam, would you please come here a moment?”

  Adam rose and joined him at the window.

  Henry asked God to give him the right words. He said, “We cannot feel the wind from here. So how do we know it is real?”

  Adam thought. “We see it.”

  “You see the wind? What good eyes you have, Adam. Where?”

  Adam pointed out the window. “I see it blowing the branches.”

  “Right. We can’t feel it from here or see it directly. But we know it’s there because we see its effects. What it does.”

  Adam said nothing, nor did his expression light with understanding as Henry had hoped.

  Henry tried again. “Do you see that cedar—that stout tree overshadowing the courtyard?”

  Adam shifted his focus and nodded.

  “It was planted the day our grandfather was born. For its age, it should be twice the height it is now. But its top has been blasted out by the prevailing winds blowing over the ridgeline. So it has grown out instead of up. The trees have all been shaped by the wind.”

  Adam nodded.

  Henry continued, “Like you, Adam, I don’t always feel God listening or speaking to me. But I have seen Him answer my prayers and the prayers of others—though not always as I would like, nor as quickly as my impatience desires. But I have seen the effects of prayer.”

  Adam said suddenly, “I asked God to forgive me for all the bad things I’ve done.”

  Astounded, Henry studied his brother’s profile. “What bad things could you have possibly done?”

  Henry wondered if Adam had done more than sneak into Miss Smallwood’s room at night. More than helping himself to their mother’s perfume and perhaps the chess piece, though he’d denied the latter, saying it appeared in his valise sometime after Henry had asked him about it.

  “You know.” Adam’s glance slid to Henry, then away again. “You were there.”

  “Was I?” Henry asked, confused.

  Adam returned to the soldiers and sat back down on the floor. “They sent me away after.”

  Henry stared. “I was not yet four when they . . . when you went to live with Mr. and Mrs. Hobbes. I don’t remember very much of those days.”

  Adam looked up, his eyes taking on a distant gleam. “We were in Mar’s sitting room. Though she was not my mar yet. She had a kettle on the fire for tea. She was called away and was a long time coming back.” Adam shook his head. “I wanted to help her, so I tried to pour. But I spilt it on your arm. How you cried. Mrs. Hobbes said it was a blessing—for if you drank boiling water you’d have burned your innards. Might have died.”

  Henry sat down across from Adam and looked at his own arm. The small patch of slightly scarred skin began itching at that moment as if provoked by the memory. “I am fine, Adam. As you see. Fine.”

  Impulsively, he reached over and laid a hand on Adam’s arm. Adam stiffened, and Henry quickly withdrew it. “It was an accident, Adam. You were only a child.”

  And while that accident might have been the final straw, Henry guessed the reasons for sending Adam away were far more complicated.

  “I am sorry,” Adam said, as if a line in a script.

  “You have nothing to be . . .” Henry began, then thought the better of it. Clearly this had been bothering Adam for years. He said firmly but gently, “Adam, look at me.”

  Adam’s gaze flickered up toward Henry but quickly skated away.

  “Adam, I forgive you. Do you believe me?”

  “Yes.”

  Henry’s heart ached. He said hoarsely, “Adam, will you forgive me?”

  Adam darted a look at him, and before he looked away again, Henry thought he saw a hint of surprise there. “What did you do?”

  Looking at his brother’s profile, a lump rose in Henry’s throat. “Nothing. For far too long.”

  The following week, while Henry was out on his morning ride, still a quarter mile from home, a storm blew in from the southwest. The sky darkened and clouds billowed. The rain did not come, although the air felt thick and pregnant with it. The wind rose and howled like a woman in labor pains, but still the rain did not come.

  Henry was seized with a sudden and terrible dread. What was it? Was Miss Smallwood in trouble, or . . . ? An image of his tower flashed in his mind like a premonition.

  Although usually calm in any weather, his horse, Major, snorted and shied, perhaps sensing Henry’s alarm. Henry urged Major into a gallop across the top of the headland, toward the tower they had rebuilt and upon which he had installed the bell only two days before.

  Ahead of him, near the point, he saw Miss Smallwood, Lizzie, and Julian clustered around Rowan’s easel, helping him pack up his supplies before the rain hit.

  Henry rode past them to look over the edge. There, as he feared, was a ship, struggling to navigate the choppy seas to enter the haven.

  His heart thumped. His pulse raced. This was it—the “next time” he had anticipated. There was no time to waste.

  Emma Smallwood had run to the cliff’s edge t
o see what had drawn his attention. Seeing the ship tilting dangerously, she pressed a gloved hand to her mouth.

  He called down to her, “Ring the bell. Hard!”

  She nodded and whirled toward the tower. He turned Major’s head and spurred him onward, galloping down the path toward the harbor.

  Emma started toward the tower to do his bidding, but Lizzie caught her by the wrist, her face a sudden mask of hard lines and determination.

  “Don’t,” she commanded.

  “But . . . I . . . ” Emma sputtered. “You heard what Henry said. He wants us to ring the bell.”

  Lizzie’s eyes widened in apparent disbelief. “I didn’t hear him say that. Not over this wind.”

  Emma tried to pull away, but Lizzie held her with a surprisingly tight grip.

  “What are you doing? Let me go.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Don’t you understand—the ship is in trouble. Lives are at stake.”

  “What is that to us?”

  Lizzie’s cold voice, her casual disdain of life, struck Emma hard. Why had she thought she knew Lizzie Henshaw at all? Emma struggled against the girl’s grasp. Though Lizzie was several years younger, she was strong. By comparison, Emma’s daily routine of reading and teaching had done little to strengthen her arms.

  Lizzie turned and shouted toward Rowan and Julian, several yards away. “She’s trying to ring the bell. Come and help me.”

  Emma looked over her shoulder at them. Were they all in league together in . . . whatever this was?

  Abandoning the easel, Julian came running, bounding across the grass. Rowan followed close behind. Emma knew that once they laid hold of her. She would never get loose. It was now or never.

  She quit struggling for a moment, pretending to give up. She hung her head as though defeated. As she’d hoped, Lizzie’s grip loosened fractionally. At this, Emma gave a great lift and downward lurch, as though bringing down an axe on a chicken’s neck.

  Lizzie cried out and reached for her again, but Emma reeled and slapped her hard across the face. The girl reared back and stumbled but kept to her feet, cradling her injured cheek with both hands.

  Emma turned and bolted the few feet to the ladder and began climbing up as quickly as she could.

  “You cow!” Lizzie yelled, shock and venom in her voice.

  Emma didn’t look down but felt Lizzie’s hand raking at her cape hem. She jerked away, cleared the last rung of the ladder, and mounted the platform. She grasped the bell lever and pulled hard, over and over again until her ears rang and her head began to ache.

  “I think you can stop, Miss Smallwood,” Julian called up pleasantly. “The whole village has heard you by now.”

  “The whole county, I imagine,” Rowan added wryly.

  Would they trap her up there? Push the tower over with her atop it?

  “You must forgive Lizzie,” Julian said. “She was only concerned about our well-being. She knows whoever knocked down this tower before might come after us all looking for revenge, should they be deprived of a rich wreck.” He sent a fond smile toward the irate young woman, still holding her face. “Isn’t that right, Lizzie?”

  Lizzie glared at him.

  But Julian smiled in reply and said gently, “You were only trying to protect us, all of us. Is that not right, dear Lizzie?” he asked her pointedly.

  From between clenched teeth, she ground out, “Yes, dear Julian.”

  He smiled up at Emma. “You see? Come down now and the two of you make up.”

  Lizzie seethed, “I will not ‘make up.’ She hit me in the face. Did you not see?”

  “I did.” Julian looked up again at Emma with apparent admiration. “And I must say, I’m impressed. I did not think the tutor’s daughter had it in her. She’s not entirely the prim spinster I thought her.”

  Emma wasn’t sure if that was meant as a compliment or an insult, but was too shaken to care.

  “Just wait until Lady Weston hears of this!” Lizzie cried, lifting her chin.

  At the moment, Lady Weston was the least of Emma’s fears.

  Rowan looked up at her earnestly. “Come down, Miss Smallwood,” he urged. “You look very ill.”

  “I shall wait here, thank you,” she said, forcing a cool, imperious tone. Never let them see fear, she recalled her aunt advising: of wild dogs or ill-mannered boys.

  From the direction of the house, she glimpsed Phillip running toward them, Sir Giles and her father lumbering behind.

  “Thank God,” she whispered, realizing she had not thanked Him properly in far too long.

  Knowing, or at least hoping, the three of them would not attempt to harm her in the presence of witnesses, Emma climbed gingerly down the ladder on trembling legs, too concerned about the ship, about Henry, to worry overly much about the impropriety of descending a ladder on a windy day above the heads of young men. They were not looking at her anyway; they were looking down at the struggling brig, talking in terse voices amongst themselves.

  As much as she longed for the comforting presence of her friend Phillip and of her father and kindly Sir Giles, Emma made no move to join them.

  Phillip approached ahead of the older men, and Lizzie ran to him, lacing her hands around his arm, face downcast, the picture of injured femininity.

  The offended part of Emma wished to stay and defend herself, but she did not wait. Instead, she turned, pointed out to sea, and called over her shoulder, “A ship’s in trouble. Henry’s gone down to help!”

  She expected Sir Giles, or at least Phillip, to follow her and lend aid as well.

  But Phillip hung back, his head bent to hear what Lizzie was saying. No doubt vilifying Emma. Well, that could not be helped now. Vaguely hearing her father calling after her, Emma grabbed a handful of skirts and hurried down the path.

  Slowing his horse at the bottom of the hill to round the sharp bend, Henry heard the bell above ring out at last, loud and strong. Thank God. He’d begun to wonder what had forestalled Emma, or if someone had disabled the bell.

  Turning onto the sand road and galloping toward the beach, Henry saw the brig careening toward the far side of the harbor opposite the breakwater, her sails in tatters. He rode as fast as he could, reaching the beach as the ship struck rock beyond the harbor’s mouth, turning broadside against the sea. Six frantic sailors lashed a yard line from the ship and from it jumped off into the water, desperate not to go down with the ship. The sailors floundered amidst the waves, struggling to keep their heads above the water.

  Looking out at the crushing waves, Henry’s heart failed him. Fear froze him to the saddle. The men would never swim in against that undertow. And he could not swim out to them. He doubted even the strongest, most experienced swimmer could manage the feat, and he had swum but little since boyhood.

  He glanced down at the various fishing boats on shore. He could not row out over the bruising surf of the harbor’s unprotected north side without capsizing. He glimpsed a rope in the bow of a boat, and an idea came to him. He dismounted, grabbed the rope, secured it around his waist, then leapt back onto his horse, his feet easily finding the stirrups by long habit.

  Gracious God, help me. Help those poor souls. Taking the reins, he urged his horse forward. “Come on, boy. Let’s go.” Across the sands and into the water the obedient horse galloped. Icy water splashed up Henry’s legs, then his waist, until he realized his horse was swimming. “Brave Major,” he murmured.

  Ahead, he saw the six men bobbing and gasping for air.

  “Hold fast all together!” Henry called. Not sure they could hear him over the wind, he demonstrated by reaching up and clasping his own hands together.

  The men made their way laboriously to one another and held on.

  Henry tossed the end of the rope to the nearest man. He missed it and went under. Henry reeled it in as quickly as he could, then tossed it again. This time the man caught it. Suddenly a wave broke over Henry, stunning him with the force of the water, driving him back. He fe
lt himself pulled from the saddle but gripped it with all the strength of his leg muscles and a hand to the leather straps. Robbed of breath, his lungs burned. Eyes closed, he felt dizzy and disoriented.

  God, help me! he beseeched in silent cry. The wave passed, and Henry’s head cleared the water. He sputtered for breath. He searched the sea around him, exulting to see the men still huddled together, the rope tied around the arm of the first.

  “Come on, boy. Back to shore,” Henry urged, signaling with his rein, knees, and voice.

  The horse, heaving and snorting water from its nostrils, turned by degrees and, straining against the undertow and the weight of the waterlogged men, slowly pulled them all to shore.

  The sailors, gasping and coughing, knelt in the surf, thanking God, Henry surmised, in a language foreign to his ears. Spanish, he thought. Or perhaps Portuguese.

  But one man looked wildly about him. Then he reached up and grasped Henry’s coattail. “Sir, my brothah!” he cried in accented English. “Hee’s gone!”

  Henry surveyed the small huddle of men—there were only five on shore. Disappointment slammed into him. No . . .

  Searching the sea, the man pointed. “There!”

  Henry looked and saw a head, then a desperate hand, before the man disappeared beneath the waves.

  “Please, sir. I beg you,” the man said. “Hee’s my brothah.”

  For a moment their eyes caught and held. Brother . . . Henry’s heart twisted. Dare he go out again? He hated to ask it of his horse, but as much as he loved and valued the animal, a man’s life was more important.

  More important than my own? he asked himself, then banished the thought. He had made himself a promise. A vow. He would not sit by and do nothing. Not again.

  “Come on, boy. Let’s go.” He urged Major back into the surf. If the horse hesitated, it was only a momentary pause, yet Henry felt a tremor run through the massive muscles and knew the horse felt fear as he did.

  Henry focused his gaze on the spot where the man had gone under. From the corner of his eye, a massive grey wall of water loomed into view. He took a gulp of air, stopped his breath, and ducked his head as the wave broke high over him. This time, Henry opened his eyes underwater and was amazed to see the sailor nearby, reaching up. The man managed to grab the stirrup nearest him. Henry reached down and seized the man’s collar.